The morning after she passed, I walked around the house and picked up the dozens and dozens of medications she was taking. All of the pain killers, appetite stimulators, anti-nausea and other gut-related meds, antibiotics, even her normal non-cancer meds - all of it went into an oversize shopping bag.

Then I wrote a letter thanking the doctors and especially the nurses who helped her during her last days. She'd done eight other stays in the hospital since mid June, so we'd had some experience there. But this group was exceptional.

Got in my car and did one more horrible drive to the hospital. There I completely filled the medicine disposal box that they have in the main lobby, with quite a bit still left in the bag. I took the letter up to the floor where she stayed, barely managed to get the words out to explain what it was when I handed it to the people manning the nurses station. And then I got out of there as quick as I could.

The rest of the medicine I took to a local police station, which also has a medicine disposal box.

All of the cancer literature, random medical supplies, and all of the hospital discharge packets she'd brought home in the past few months, right in the trash. I threw out all of the supplements and all of the special foods she had collected since she was diagnosed. One thing about an incurable illness is that it opens the door to people who sell hope. She bought a lot of hope.

Everything that reminded me of her illness, right in the trash.

Now, the house looks like it did early last August, before she started wondering about that nagging pain in her side, before she got that ultrasound that showed something was going on with her pancreas, before that horrible month when she waited and waited for her shitty GP to schedule a CT scan while telling her how they knew it was "urgent", before she jokingly made me promise to get her a puppy if it turned out to be pancreatic cancer, before we finally got tired of waiting and went to the ER where they gave us the bad news.

And I've put away her clothes and other things, and now the house looks like it should. No cancer stuff.

And every time I put something of hers away, I catch myself thinking that it's not where she wants it to be put. Because even though I know she's gone, a huge part of me still expects her to walk through the door and smile at me.

Unconscious on pain medication, her kidneys failing, fluid building up in her lungs. She struggled for breath for most of her last day.

I sat by her side, held her hand, told her that she didn't have to fight anymore. That it was OK to let go. She wouldn't.

Late that night, I was sitting in the hospital room's recliner, exhausted and naively thinking I might be able to get some sleep, that she would probably wake up again once some of the medication wore off, that this was a temporary situation. The doctor had said, around noon, that she likely had "days" left, not "hours".

Then, I heard little whimpers escaping in her breath.

I went back to her side, held her hand. I told her, three times:

"
We all love you.

You have been the best wife.

You've done a great job.

But you can go now.

You are free.
"

And then she stopped breathing.

I choose to believe she heard me.

Goodbye to my amazing wife of very nearly 30 years. The person who worried about me mowing the lawn in the NC heat. The person who would care when I noticed a stupid new red light on the only road out of town. The person who liked my apple pie but only tolerated my pork chops and sauerkraut. The person who made it fun to be me. The only other person who knew the now-useless encyclopedia of inside jokes and references we collected together. The person who decorated and designed this suddenly-too-big house. The person who filled the closets and dressers with dresses and shoes. The person who was with me more than half my now-hollow life. The subject of so many college-age poems. The subject of so many recent songs. My plus-one. My far-better half. My emergency contact. My beneficiary. My shared account-holder. My sunshine, my only sunshine. My beautiful friend. My best friend. My reason. My everything.

Fuck pancreatic cancer.